The Eternal Forest of Darkness had undeniably justified its ominous title. Its trees towered infinitely into the tempestuous sky, their gnarled branches forming a canopy that obscured all but the faintest glimmers of light. The atmosphere was dense, saturated with the scent of moist earth and decay. It was a realm where few dared to venture; those who did rarely came back.
Today, it served as the backdrop for a man navigating the precarious boundary between life and death. Veythor limped through the mire, each step a testament to his sheer determination. His boots sank into the muck, which threatened to engulf him with every unsteady movement. Blood oozed from a wound on his side, dark streaks intertwining with the rain that fell incessantly from the heavens. The injury was severe, a jagged gash inflicted by a blade designed to end lives. It had not yet triumphed; however, it was relentless in its pursuit. His breaths were shallow and strained, each one a battle against the excruciating agony that gripped his chest. "Fifteen times," he muttered, his voice little more than a whisper. "Fifteen attempts... and still..." (he sensed the oppressive darkness encroaching upon him) because this was a struggle he could not afford to lose.
The sentence faded into the stillness as his legs buckled beneath him. He crumpled to his knees, the impact jarring his battered form. His hands plunged deep into the mud, the chill seeping into his skin. He coughed a wet, ragged sound that tore at his throat, splattering blood onto the ground.
The forest provided no solace However its ancient trees stood silent and indifferent, their gnarled roots tangling in the darkness like skeletal fingers. The rain descended in relentless sheets, its icy sting numbing Veythor's senses. For a fleeting moment, he contemplated surrender. Allowing the mud to consume him entirely, permitting the pain to dissolve into the void. But that moment evaporated swiftly, supplanted by a stubborn ember of defiance. He willed himself to his feet, his body protesting every inch of the journey. His vision swam, the edges darkening as exhaustion and blood loss waged war against his will. Leaning heavily against a nearby tree, its coarse bark pressed painfully into his palm, he muttered,
"How many more times?" to the shadows surrounding him. "How many more times will they come for me... until they finally succeed?" The forest remained mute; only the storm responded, its thunder rumbling like a distant growl.
Veythor pressed onward, his steps unsteady and trembling. Each stride felt potentially final; however, he was resolute in his determination to continue. Memories surged unexpectedly to the forefront of his consciousness, vivid and unrelenting. The faces of those who had betrayed him surfaced, their laughter reverberating in his ears. Moments of fleeting triumph were eclipsed by the shadows of treachery and despair.
He stumbled once more, this time unable to regain his balance. His body collided with the earth, the sickening thud accompanied by mud splattering in every direction. The force expelled the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping and choking. Rolling onto his back, he gazed up at the tumultuous sky. The rain assaulted his face, cold and unyielding. His arms lay sprawled at his sides, the remnants of his strength swiftly evaporating.
"Why?"
he breathed, his voice scarcely a whisper. "Why did I struggle so fiercely... only to end up like this?"
Silence enveloped him. The storm continued its relentless fury, indifferent to his anguish. Yet, as the darkness inched closer to the periphery of his vision, Veythor discovered a smile creeping onto his lips. It was a bitter smile, imbued with defiance. He chuckled softly, the sound nearly drowned out by the tempest's roar. "
Maybe..." he murmured. "Maybe in my next life, I'll triumph. Maybe then... I'll finally win.
His eyes gradually closed resembling a leaf gently descending. The world started to vanish, dissolving into emptiness. The rain continued to pour, soaking his motionless figure and the forest remained silent. However, an unusual tranquility enveloped the scene, because nature appeared to pause for a moment. Although the storm unleashed its fury, this instant felt timeless and for Veythor, there was only darkness.
The rain descended steadily, cold and indifferent; it seemed to mock the frailty of existence.
Veythor's body lay sprawled on the blood-soaked earth, his crimson lifeblood merging with the rain, carried away in delicate streams. The scene was eerily still, however, interrupted only by the relentless patter of water. Although it was a moment of silence, the air felt heavy with unspoken grief. This stark juxtaposition of life and death lingered, like a haunting melody echoing in the distance.
No one lives forever.
Yet in this ephemeral realm, there resided a narrative a forgotten myth that only Veythor and a handful of others held in belief.
It narrated the tale of the first human ever fashioned. This individual was not akin to the rest; he was immortal,his name was Ransha a being designed not for the transience of life but for eternity. Unlike the mortals who followed, he alone could converse with the one true deity. For centuries, he reveled in the joy and privilege of this celestial communion.
The world was expansive, its marvels inexhaustible and the presence of the Creator imbued his heart with purpose. However, as the years elongated into centuries, the man began to metamorphose. He found himself solitary. There were no others akin to him, no companions to partake in his eternal journey. The ecstasy of being chosen by God morphed into a burden. The splendor of creation started to fade, the wonders of the world transforming into hollow echoes of their former glory. Time continued its relentless march and his loneliness became unbearable. He started to covet the mortals who lived and perished, their transient lives infused with love, loss and meaning.
Their existence was finite, but because of its brevity, it held purpose. His immortality, once a blessing, now felt like a curse a cruel reminder of his seclusion.
In his profound despair, he found himself turning to the one true God: the Creator who had once spoken to him with both kindness and clarity. He pleaded for release begging for an end to his seemingly endless existence. He screamed into the heavens, calling out for the deity who had granted him life.
However, the silence that followed was deafening, for he knew that the answers he sought were shrouded in the very void he yearned to escape. Although he felt abandoned, this was a moment that would define his journey, because every cry echoed the depths of his soul's turmoil.
But there was no answer.
The silence enveloped him like a suffocating shroud. The one true god, who had once been his sole refuge, now appeared remote and unattainable. He screamed until his voice shattered, however, the heavens continued to remain mute.
Without death, his existence felt futile; without connection, his immortality morphed into a relentless torment. Thus, the man wandered the earth, lost and fragmented, burdened by the weight of eternity pressing down upon his shoulders.
Some assert he still roams, lamenting to the one true god, yearning for a response that will never arrive. Others propose he succumbed to madness, his mind splintered by the infinite emptiness of his being. Veythor embraced this narrative, not because it provided him solace, but because it mirrored a truth he had always perceived: life devoid of death is an affliction. Although the assurance of an end is unsettling, it is precisely this that gives even the grandest joys their significance. The rain incessantly fell, cleansing the remnants of blood and the recollections of Veythor's final moments. Yet, the tale endured, whispered by the wind and transmitted through generations. This legacy served as a poignant reminder of the fragile equilibrium that exists between life and death.